


Just Talk to Me... Please?

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Being an Idiot, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, M/M, Miscommunication, No Communication, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:39:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22399813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: “So…” Jaskier strums his lute, producing a horribly discordant sound that has the hair on the back of the Witcher’s neck standing on end. “Much as I enjoy listening to the sound of my own voice, I cannot help but wonder whether you intend  to speak to me again in this lifetime.”“Hmm,” Geralt stirs Roach into a steady trot, and if Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d think that the Witcher was trying to lose him in the thick of the forest. Of course, that very idea is completely and utterly preposterous—Jaskier is a bloody magnet for all things dangerous and troublesome, and no matter how mad Geralt purported to be—AKAThe one time Jaskierdoesn'tconfide in Geralt, shit manages to go even more sideways than usual.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 844





	Just Talk to Me... Please?

“So…” Jaskier strums his lute, producing a horribly discordant sound that has the hair on the back of the Witcher’s neck standing on end. “Much as I enjoy listening to the sound of my own voice, I cannot help but wonder whether you intend to speak to me again in this lifetime.”

“Hmm,” Geralt stirs Roach into a steady trot, and if Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d think that the Witcher was trying to lose him in the thick of the forest. Of course, that very idea is completely and utterly preposterous —Jaskier is a bloody  _ magnet _ for all things dangerous and troublesome, and no matter  _ how _ mad Geralt purported to be—

“And… he’s gone.” Jaskier’s face pinches when he realizes that Roach has disappeared amongst the clusters of trees. He doubts that the Witcher has wandered far, but still… it hurts. “Wonderful. Just…”

He entertains the idea of following after him for a moment. He knows that it’s foolish—the forest is  _ dense _ , and even in the midst of the afternoon it’s difficult to see more than a few inches in front of his face at any given time. The odds of him successfully navigating the thicket on his own were depressingly  _ low _ , whilst the odds of him unwittingly stumbling across some bloodthirsty predator’s hunting grounds were unsettlingly  _ high _ . His shoulder begins to smart as he picks a tree at random and slumps down against it, resting his lute between his legs. Geralt will be back any moment now. He just needs to be patient and wait out the Witcher’s ire.

To be fair, Geralt’s anger is entirely justified. Jaskier is grown, and can admit to his mistakes. His mistakes are not usually so grave as to almost result in  _ both _ of their deaths, but they have a tendency to be rather…  _ severe _ . But, in his defense, even  _ Geralt _ hadn’t realized that the Bruxa was masquerading as the local farmer’s daughter until she’d latched onto Jaskier’s shoulder with every intent to bleed him dry. Geralt was distressed over Jaskier having yet  _ another _ near death experience, of course he was. But Jaskier’s absolute inability to keep himself out of danger, while  _ annoying _ , was not the reason that Geralt had refused to speak to him for… approximately three days now.

No, Geralt is seething because Jaskier  _ conveniently _ neglected to mention the absolutely mind-numbingly horrific nightmares he’d been experiencing since they’d arrived in this little backwater town. He’d warned the bard, in no uncertain terms, that Bruxas were able to manipulate their victims’ wills through their songs, planting horrific visions in their mind via night terrors. He’d gripped his wrists tight and made him  _ swear _ that he would confide in Geralt at the first sign of trouble. Given the bard’s love of prattling on about everything and nothing, he hadn’t thought that this would be a particularly harrowing task for him. 

The nightmares had come, and though he’d found himself on the cusp of confiding in his Witcher on a number of occasions… he just  _ hadn’t _ . He is no stranger to nightmares—between himself and Geralt, they’re lucky to manage to rest for a handful of hours each night. He’ll never admit that his nightmares grow increasingly more grotesque and perverse as the number hunts he invites himself on increases, his traitorous brain coming up with new and ever more terrifying ways to have Geralt die before his eyes. Just because his Witcher is sturdier than the average human does not mean he’s invincible; when he’s cut, he bleeds hot, thick blood, just as red as any human. 

Jaskier should know. He was covered in it. Because he stabbed Geralt… just a little bit. Only the very  _ tip _ of the blade had penetrated Geralt’s armor, and the resulting wound actually rather resembled a— _ large _ —scratch. And really, it was kind of Geralt’s fault for running headlong into the blade. But none of that matters because he  _ still _ feels like shit and he’s apologized at least one hundred times and Geralt… He’s fairly certain that Geralt was a  _ bit _ tiffed over the whole getting stabbed bit, but had understood that Jaskier hadn’t done it willingly. No, Geralt was upset because Jaskier had refused to confide in him; no, more than that, had flat out  _ lied _ to him and had almost gotten killed for it.

Jaskier looks to his wounded shoulder, mouth twisting into a grimace as blood begins to ooze through his moss-green doublet.  _ Wonderful _ , he thinks. With his sorry luck he’ll attract another vampire. “...bloody Witcher took all the godsdamned bandages.” He  _ thunks _ his head against the tree trunk and sighs, eyes slipping closed.

“I can leave, if you’d like. Allow you to wallow in your self-pity and ill-directed anger awhile longer.” Cornflower eyes fly open to meet molten amber. Geralt stands before him, holding a mess of bright white bandages in his hand.

Jaskier blinks, “You came back.” He hadn’t doubted that he would return, of course. He’d just expected it to take awhile longer. But then he notices that the light is no longer peaking out from between the trees… How long has he been sitting here?

“I wasn’t far.” He says, and though it looks as though he wants to say more, his lips remain firmly sealed as he kneels down alongside Jaskier and begins tending to his wound. 

It doesn’t take long for Jaskier to grow weary of the silence. “...I worry sometimes. About what you think of me. I know that your communication skills have improved  _ tremendously _ since the, er…  _ incident _ , but… I don’t know. I can’t help but think of myself as a burden to you at times. All I really seem to be capable of is hurting myself… and  _ you _ .”

Geralt is silent for a long moment, his olive fingers stained with Jaskier’s blood as he checks the integrity of the bard’s stitches. Finally, he settles on, “Why?”

Cryptic as ever. “Would you be so kind as to  _ elaborate _ ?” 

Geralt’s fingers pinch the torn skin just a hair too tight as he hisses, “Why didn’t you  _ trust _ me?”

Because I’ve had so many dreams that feature you dying, I didn’t think this one to be too terribly different. Because I’ve managed to cause so much trouble for you over these months we’ve traveled together, that I wouldn’t be surprised if my dumbass somehow manages to  _ cause _ your death. Because I honestly don’t think that you’ll believe me when I say that this clusterfuck of insecurities splayed so beautifully before you has absolutely  _ nothing _ to do with a lack of faith, or trust, or  _ anything _ in you and  _ everything _ to do with the fact that, whilst  _ you _ seem to think you’re somehow a danger to  _ me _ ,  _ I’m  _ the one that’s constantly dragging  _ you _ into harms’ way.

He says none of this, choosing instead to relish the feel of Geralt’s hands upon his aching, feverish flesh. Puncture wounds always carry that little extra  _ bite _ to them—no pun intended—and even if the wound has been thoroughly cleaned numerous times and there’s absolutely no chance of him developing an infection (Geralt had seen to that, making a point to tend to the bard’s wounds in his usual stoic, broodish silence before even entertaining the notion of looking after his own), it still  _ hurts _ like the Dickens’. The prolonged silence only serves to aggravate Geralt, if the irritated  _ huffs _ and soft curses muttered underbreath are any indication. He sighs.

“Okay, I know how this is going to sound, but honestly… it’s not you, it’s me.” Geralt offers him a thoroughly nonplussed expression—okay, so its pretty bad when even someone as socially inept as his Witcher knows just how hackneyed that phrase is… “Seriously.  _ This _ is a great big  _ me _ problem.”

“You could have died. Another minute, maybe even less, and that Bruxa would have killed you.  _ That _ makes  _ this _ a ‘me’ problem.” Geralt retorts, and the bard feels his heart skip a beat. He hadn’t thought of it quite like that before. He hadn’t thought himself important enough to the Witcher to warrant actual concern…

“I-I didn’t think—,” it is here that Geralt cuts him off with a sharp huff, tying his bandages just a  _ hair _ too tight to be comfortable.

“That’s your problem. You don’t think.” And fuck, he’s not so prideful that he cannot admit that Geralt’s words  _ hurt _ . They cut him to the quick in the most painful of ways, serving as a verbal reminder that he’s not good enough, he never  _ was _ good enough, and he’ll never  _ be _ good enough. 

He bites his lower lip and stutters out a soft, “I-I’m sorry…” and feels every last muscle in his body tense when Geralt just  _ laughs _ —the low, uneasy rumble sounding hollow and broken and  _ rageful _ . 

“Don’t. Just… don’t.” He deflates, looking absolutely miserable as he notes, “You’re crying.”

Jaskier swallows hard, “T-That would appear to be the case, yes.”

Geralt is silent for a long moment, his molten amber eyes boring into Jaskier’s cornflower blue… Slowly, he raises one blood-stained hand to brush the tears away from Jaskier’s ruddy cheeks. As soon as that hand makes contact with his flesh, so  _ strong _ and  _ sure _ and  _ confident _ , Jaskier can feel his walls come crashing down as his mouth begins to move faster than his brain. He knows that he’s making a complete and utter fool of himself, but it’s almost as if he’s witnessing the events from outside of his own body—he has no power to stop his wagging tongue, no matter how desperately he may want to. He doesn’t need to give Geralt another reason to see him as a burden.

Halfway through his tirade, Geralt takes pity on him and grabs his face so tightly it  _ burns _ and mashes their faces together in the  _ least _ romantic kiss that Jaskier has experienced in his entire life. And something within him clenches  _ tight  _ with the realization that their first kiss is in the middle of  _ nowhere _ , with both of them wounded and bloody and downright  _ furious _ … There are no soft touches, or sweet-nothings whispered into the other’s ear… It’s nothing like he imagined it would be, and somehow that makes it all the more perfect. He clings to Geralt as the Witcher tears a dark moan from the depths of his belly, the sound tinged with desperation and longing and  _ sorrow _ .

When Geralt draws back, his chapped lips are swollen and dark, his hair in an utterly laughable state… “Listen to me well, Jaskier, because I do not care to repeat myself.” The Witcher says as he brings their foreheads together, “Your feelings are not stupid, or invalid, or  _ wrong _ —regardless of whether I, or anyone else understands it, you needn’t justify your feelings to  _ anyone _ .  _ Nobody _ has the right to tell you that you’re wrong for feeling the way that you do.”

“G-Geralt…” Jaskier’s eyes widen. That was… surprisingly deep for a man that, according to popular myth, wasn’t actually supposed to be able to  _ feel _ .

“...That being said,” he sighs, “I am not immortal. I’ve made my peace with the inevitability of my death.” Feeling the way that Jaskier tenses, he slides his hands down the bard’s lithe arms and continues, “But that does not mean that I’ve come to accept the inevitability of yours.” The bard’s cornflower blue eyes widen as he continues, “I know that I will long outlive you… but the thought of surrendering you sooner than absolutely necessary—,”

Jaskier keens, wetting his lips as he tries to kick his brain into high-gear to formulate an appropriate response. “Geralt, I…”

“No.” Geralt’s lips flutter over his again, temporarily silencing him. “I’m  _ trying _ to tell you that there’s no reason to hide from me. I cannot read your mind. If you do not tell me what troubles you, then—,”

The bard throws his arms around Geralt’s neck, managing to tear open his stitches along the way. Geralt sighs as the coppery tang of blood hits his nose, and it’s a testament to how comfortable he’s become around Jaskier that he doesn’t wrap the bard’s body around the tree like he were a piece of string. “We’re truly a couple of idiots, aren’t we?”

“Hmm…” he drags his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, “Just… do me a favor and attempt to have your grand revelation  _ before _ you stab me next time.”

Jaskier snorts, tears brimming in his eyes of an entirely different sort. “Duly noted.”


End file.
